


Hello, Sherlock

by aphwank



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual, Drama, Drug Use, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Multi, No Sex, Violence, moriarty's alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5858794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphwank/pseuds/aphwank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is playing a game that seems impossible to win. He makes Sherlock choose. John, or all of England. For once Sherlock is at a loss for answers and it irritates him to no end. But when the threat is eliminated, it arises ten fold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game

221B always had a habit of being the hub of the impossible. Anywhere from impossible cases, to impossible people, and Sherlock's love life, which to most, was seemingly impossible. Yet, there they were, John and Sherlock sitting in their flat, years after Sherlock came back from the dead. Things were their normal form of chaos and John's blog was booming with brand new mysteries they've solved throughout the years together. However, they weren't together in that sense, but there was no doubt that there was something. Sherlock never believed in love, but John broke all of his boundaries, first as a best friend and then as something more that he simply refused to accept.

So that is where they were to this day, stuck in a moot point where John would be lucky to get any sign of affection for the man. There was this silent agreement the two men held that business was strictly business and to leave the emotions behind. This, however, was challenged when their biggest demon seemingly arose from the dead in the form of one single text message.

Boredom and frustrations coursed through Sherlock's veins that morning as he paced their tiny flat as a client droned endlessly about their missing child. Something along the lines of this woman's son who vanished from their house one day for no reason and was nowhere to be found. What was odd was that his room was riddled with women's lingerie and heels yet he had no girlfriend or female friends. This frantic mother was fixed on the idea that her son was abducted by a woman and could only imagine what she did to him in his own room and then simply cleaned it all up after.

From the corner of Sherlock's eye, he could see John in his usual chair, his lips tilted upwards in amusement and trying hard not to laugh at this clueless woman. The story had gone way past it's expiration date to be any kind of entertaining for Sherlock. He wanted to tell the woman to just shut up and get out of his flat, but both John and Mrs. Hudson made him swear to be nicer to his clients, especially those who are distraught. That being said, he sent a pleading look at John to save him from his misery.

John sighed and stood and walked over to their desk, which was littered with three laptops and endless amount of papers. After shifting through the papers, he managed to find a blank piece and a pen.

"This may be hard to hear, Mrs. Willams, would you like some tea?" he asked as he wrote. The woman looked at him incredulously, "Would I like some tea?! My son could be dead in a ditch somewhere and you ask me if I would like some tea?!" she demanded, standing to her feet, her face turning puse in her agitation. Unable to hold back anymore, Sherlock addressed her for the first time since she came in.

"Your son is not dead, and I'm sure if you paid any attention to the boy then you would already know where he is," he said as he picked up his violin and began to play, tuning the woman out again. She was about to explode at the man, John distracted her war path with a piece of paper in front of her face.

"Meredith, was it? Your son is in perfect condition, I am sure. I've written down a few addresses where you can check. What Sherlock is saying is that your son might be gay and dress as a woman in his spare time," John said a bit awkwardly, fearful of the mother's response. He could tell as her face started to contort with rage that she was not fond of his analysis of her precious son.

"Remember that you just thought your son was dead. I tell you he is alive and well and I suggest you keep that in mind before you no longer have a son. Have a nice day and best of luck," John said quickly as he started to guide her to the door, "Mrs. Hudson will show you out."

With the sound of the door shutting with a quiet click and John's sigh, Sherlock lowered his violin. It was obvious that this client had some sort of effect on John and he looked up to meet John's gaze.

"My Mother was the same way when she found out," he said awkwardly, going back to his chair and rolled up his sleeves. Sherlock stood still and broke the eye contact, returning to his violin.

"The only thing I had going was that I also liked women," he continued, picking up the daily paper, "How'd your mother react, she seems very loving and kind."

"She's clueless, if you asked her she'd be more surprised that I had feelings for anyone," Sherlock answered and resumed playing.

"Like that woman?" John deadpanned which caused Sherlock's hands to stop dead in their tracks. "She's dead, I don't know what you're-"

"Or me." John finished, his expression hidden by the newspaper. Sherlock chose to simply continue playing and ignore John's words all together. It was when his phone's message notification went off that he felt he was off the hook.

"We aren't done with this conversation Sherlock," John added as the consulting detective checked his phone.

How Touching.

Sherlock crinkled his brow in confusion and placed his phone back down on the desk, not hearing John's words. Before he could bring the bow back to the strings, his phone went off again.

Aw don't ignore me Sherlock

"Who is it?" John asked, noticing Sherlock snapping his head to look out the window.

"We are being watched," Sherlock said, advancing towards the open window to look out. His phone rang again.

Always a nosy one, John

"By who?" John demanded in confusion as Sherlock slammed the window shut, his stomach sinking to the floor. He didn't answer, he just stood near the window a million thoughts running through his mind. This all seemed oddly signature. But how? There was no way. Sherlock tried uselessly to shove back the absurd notions that were filling his brain. It was simply an exciting new case, one worth pursuing. Yes, that was it, something exciting to finally solve. All of his cases were lackluster as of late and he was itching for his next fix.

Warily, John set down his paper and stood to go look at Sherlock's phone himself. It was most likely the woman, he knew she always texted him, but it was the wrong notification tone. When he pried the phone from Sherlock's grasp, he read the messages himself. He frowned at the one about himself, "First off, I'm not nosy," John started, but was cut off by the phone ring and Sherlock simultaneously

"Yes you are."

Yes you are.

Both Sherlock and John frowned, someone was watching and also listening. Rather than someone watching from the outside, their flat was bugged. This couldn't be a work of some amateur.

It rang again.

Hello Sherlock

Miss Me? :)

JM.


	2. Searching

Sherlock didn't sleep that night, he had tried to track Moriarty by his texts but was coming up short. In anger, Sherlock threw his computer, watching it break in half and the letter keys scatter the floor. The clatter resounded throughout the apartment and left an eerie silence in its wake. He didn't worry too much about the damaged electronic, he had two others, one however was John's. John would of had his head if he touched his laptop. He left the broken laptop stay in pieces on the floor and turned back to the desk, Mrs. Hudson would throw a fit and clean it up or force him to do it anyways. There were more pressing thoughts on his mind at the present time than a mess on the floor. He was lucky that the crash didn't arouse John in his bed he shared with Sherlock. Only for the sole reason that there was not room for another bed, of course. John however, seemed very pleased with the situation.

He sat down in thought, going to his mind palace in an act of desperate frustration and away from John. Ideas ran rapidly through Sherlock's mind, names of places, what he knew or Moriarty, what he knew of himself. He looks through the texts between Moriarty and himself again and again, trying to analyze it for clues but, sadly coming up with nothing. He groaned

He stood up in a huff, half past midnight, completely ignoring the table and walks right over it. He grabbed his beloved scarf and walks briskly out of the door, brushing past Mrs. Hudson. He would have to apologize to her later, reading by the bags under her tired eyes, she had gotten as much sleep as he. Probably in worry. The woman worries too much, he decided.

"Where are you off to?" she asked, "Where is John? Sherlock what's going on?" She demanded, but once again, getting ignored. He continued to sprint down the stairs and out the door into the cold English night. He got tired very quickly of the cab he had called starts to walk down the slightly crowded street. On his way, nearly to his destination, he happens across one of the members of the "Homeless Network". He couldn't help but let a small smile perk the smallest smile on the corners of his lips when the thought of John making fun of him for the name. Lucky for John, they were much more than a name and could be a lot of help to them both. Perhaps all of England. Saved by the homeless. Also irony, it has been quite common lately, Sherlock concluded and then set his mind on his current task

"Spare Change?" the man asked, his voice gruff from old age.

"Not today." Sherlock answered, passing him a piece of paper with the name Jim Moriarty written on it in his own writing. The man nodded, taking the paper and stuffed it in his coat that was a few sizes too big. Sherlock carried on with his determined walk. It wasn't very often he needed his homeless network as of late, all of his cases had been easy and minor. Moriarty was elusive and slippery, but at least he had some hope with his expansive network and unfortunately one other resource.

He hated to resort to this. But he dialed his brother, Mycroft.

"Sherlock?" he answered in a surprised tone, "What is my pleasure to talk to my mighty little brother?" He laughed and Sherlock sighed into the receiver. He normally wasn't up to deal with his older brother, especially enough to call him, but this was an emergency. While most of his cases were micro-issues, whenever Moriarty was involved the issue turned macro and involved the whole city. For the moment, he could handle his egotistical and holier than thou attitude.

"Moriarty is back," he said simply, wanting to just cut to the chase. There really wasn't anything else he needed to know, it was irrelevant.

"What? Are you sure?" came his brother's response and Sherlock instinctively rolled his eyes. His shoes walked the rain soaked asphalt of the street as he spoke before stepping back onto the concrete from the sidewalk. The grey overcast was ominous and it was as if people knew. The streets of London were completely empty as he stomped through the dwellings of a local neighborhood.

"Of course I'm sure, I'm always sure. Find him," He said quickly, there simply was no time for small talk and useless inquiries. It didn't take him long to be able to give Sherlock some suggestions of places he could be set up. Moriarty was slippery, devious and cunning, but just like any criminal, he was predictable. It was always an abandoned building or warehouse, anywhere that was considered condemned. Sherlock had to think what location would would be more like Moriarty to inhabit for the time being.

Hours later, the sun dipped behind the horizon as he searched buildings himself while he sent some civilians from his homeless network to search as well. He had searched three warehouses at this point and his feet ached in his shoes. A light drizzle fell from the darkening sky, leaving Sherlock's coat damp and a chill that seeped into his bones. His phone was silent and he was surprised that John had not blown up his phone in the meantime, no matter how mad he was at him. Once the first few hours passed, he knew John would start to worry and he was growing concerned. This was very un-John like. Before he could continue to give the idea more thought, he approached the last building he needed to search. This building looked like all of the others, dark, grey, and lifeless. The cracked, crimson, brick glowed with the dying sun. It was odd, the lowering sun was still visible through the sparse ominous clouds that trickled their rain down. He walked passed the broken and rotten metal from the barbed wire fence to get to the equally deplorable door.

On first glance, the inside was bare, covered in cobwebs and reeked of mold. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the gears in Sherlock's head began to turn as he tried to spot anything out of the ordinary about the large and unfortunately empty room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and Sherlock decided to move on. This was the last building he needed to check, there had to be something there. It took nearly another hour of searching the abandoned building and Sherlock was exhausted. He had restlessly spent his day searching into dead ends and he was getting tired of playing Moriarty's game. With a sigh, he leaned against a door, he previously found as locked and was stunned with the entire door gave way under the pressure of his body. The door slammed against the concrete floor causing rust and dust billow around him in clouds, making him choke on the particles that danced around him. Once the debris settled and bruises began to form under Sherlock's skin, a skin crawling voice emerged from the darkness, allowing the hairs on his arms to stand on end and his heart seize in dread.

"Hello Sherlock."


	3. The Meeting

"Hello Sherlock," Jim said from the darkness, down at Sherlock as he was picking himself up off of the damp concrete floor.

"So how is John these days? Is he doing well?" Jim smirked, knowing he hit a nerve. It was obvious that Moriarty knew one of Sherlock's very few weaknesses. The man had always known, it is hard not to see, let alone a criminal mastermind.

"He is doing well," Sherlock responded cooly, brushing himself off and leaving it at that, figuring he knew already.

"And you Sherlock? Are you well?" he patronized.

"As well as I can be with you cause havoc all over England."

"So you enjoyed my little show for you?" he smiled smugly at him from across the vast room. Sherlock took the moment to survey the room and measure the amount of danger he was in.

"Your little 'shows' are childish really," Sherlock rolled his eyes at the pathetic man, still calculating plans for escape.

"Childish? Don't you find it… intriguing?" he drawled.

"Not in the slightest. Amateur."

"Tell me the truth Sherlock, you love how I can make you dance like you do? You thrive off of the mystery of me? Don't you," He asked, his voice holding no question.

"You are quite easy to see. An open book as they say."

"Then who am I Sherlock."

"A boy with a criminal mind. Haunted with knowledge like myself. But don't know what to do with it. So you decide to play games with the big boys out of your league. You throw little fits when you don't win, and you never do, do you? Consulting Criminal? Honestly? Pathetic really. Just like to play games to get your jollies," Sherlock spat simply. Jim laughed, "You have me figured out! Oh no! Sherlock Holmes has caught me!" He skips around in faux fear and nearly falls over laughing, tears tingeing the corners of his eyes. Sherlock remained silent and let Jim have his little "fit".

"No, no, no, Sherlock," He recovered, getting quite close. He was close enough to Sherlock that he could smell his breath. It smelled like gum and cigarettes. He noted the interesting combination for a later date. He didn't back away and stood his ground before the deplorable man.

"You know nothing about me," He breathed into Sherlock's face seriously.

"See, I know all about your beloved John Watson, and you. I've always known about you, Sherlock. Every last case, every last detail."

"Cases don't define me."

"Don't they?" He questioned.

"Tell me they don't show how you think? How much you enjoy the mystery! The game in on! The race against time! You love to be smarter than everyone else. Makes you king. You love the power. Though, you like to be alone. 'You walk a lonely road' as they say. But John changed that, didn't he?" Moriarty purred teasingly.

Sherlock burned with frustration and anger. He wanted to shoot him right there, and end all this madness. But it wouldn't. He knew that. He knew Moriarty had eyes and especially guns on John and himself if he did so. What was he going to do? Think. Think.

"Well, enough for the flirting! Sadly, we don't have time for that, now do we? Tick tock, tick tock!" he chimed and stepped away from Sherlock. "Have you decided?"

Sherlock had to think quickly, he was running out of time and he'd be damned if Moriarty saw him sweat. He had to keep his head, his temper, and his composure in check and keep up with his facade. He stood and thought frantically. England? Or the man he loved? Love? Dammit, this was no time for personal discoveries. Back to the task. If he chose England, then John would be killed off instantly. But if he chose John, it would take a long time to take down England, wouldn't it? He had a lot of connections it would be easy and effortless!

All of these thoughts raced rapidly through his mind. But he had been quiet for too long.

"Tick Tock," Jim sang.

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock yelled angrily, letting his composure crack. Moriarty laughed as Sherlock thought furiously, his eyes darting around and looking for solutions. This was Moriarty's plan, to watch him squirm and suffer. He knew exactly what buttons to push to make Sherlock break. Sherlock hated to believe they were really alike all along.

"I choose John," He finally said, his mind finally halting from its dizzying spin. He really didn't have a choice. Selfishness consumed him like a disease and controlled all of his thought processes. Moriarty smiled and backed into the darkness, not saying a word. He completely vanishes. Sherlock tried to follow quickly, but it is no use. The air vibrated where the man once stood and a sickening feeling built up in his gut as he frantically swiped at the air.

Within seconds, the floor began to shake and loud booms reached Sherlock's ears, so loud that all that was left was just ringing. He raced outside, jumping over the fallen door to see many buildings aflame. Smoke clouded the sky in a thick layer of ash and embers, te debris slowly floating in the wind around him. Screaming people ran from crumbling homes, pushing past him and was nearly knocked to the floor by the shoulders that slammed into him while they passed. Sherlock looked around in utter fear and confusion. What had he done and how had Moriarty done all of this so quickly. None of what was going on around him made any semblance of sense. The world around him began to blur and he tried to blink his eyes to clear the imperfections away but his vision continued to worsen. He felt woozy and felt his body steadily growing numb. The world tipped before his eyes as he fell to the floor and everything went black.

"Sherlock!" John's voice reached his ears from the static darkness. He thought that all of this must have been a dream. Wherever he was, it was oddly calm. If that was so, why was John so panicked? Why was John there? He started dabbling in the idea that he was dead for a few moments. He tried to speak, but nothing came out, his voice barely a whisper. He opened his eyes slowly but everything remained blurry like before. No, he was not dead. Is that really John he saw? He couldn't be sure. It sounded like John.

The world around him started to clear. That wasn't John. He felt his stomach churn and lurk and he was overwhelmed with the need to throw up. Jim was hovering over him, a smile wide on his face.


	4. Snap

"Fun little trick, isn't it?" Moriarty questioned, keeping his hands behind his back formally.

"What did you do to me…?" he asked firmly but his voice only comes out in a hoarse whisper. Jim didn't answer, he just smiled, sitting in a metal chair not too far away.

"Figure it out Holmes," He challenged, his palms facing the ceiling. Sherlock searched his mind, it didn't take very long, and the answer was obvious. He should have figured it out sooner, but he can blame the slowness of his quick witted brain on the something that Moriarty must have slipped him at some point during the day.

"Drugs," He said simply, his voice stronger than before. Moriarty's laugh was shrill and rang in Sherlock's ears. It was annoying and manic, making his blood run cold as he got up off the floor to stand steady. He couldn't handle him staring down at him another second.

"Correct! It was quite entertaining to dance around like my little puppet," He drawled, folding his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. Anger built up in the consulting detective, he hated being outsmarted and used. He refused to let it happen again. He kept his eyes on every movement the man made, always thinking two steps around. His eyes darted around, surveying his surroundings, looking for an exit or a distraction. It felt like his head was going to implode from overdrive and not fully recovered to the drugs. Anxiety filled Sherlock as he came up with nothing, nothing safe at least.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock growled, his voice dangerously deep and infuriated. The sudden change in tone, Moriarty looked taken aback but mostly amused. This game got more and more entertaining when Sherlock would surprise him. Pity how he gave in to Juvenile frustration.

"Whatever do you mean Sherlock? I think I have won! Once and for all, the Mighty Sherlock is stuck with no way of escaping. You can't think your way out of this one," Moriarty leaned forward with an evil smirk planted on his pale lips. Sherlock said nothing, but wasn't about to give in, wasn't about to give up. Holmes forced himself to relax, taking a small breathe to calm himself. Obviously he wasn't thinking hard enough. What was wrong with him?

"Sherlock?" A familiar voice called from the shadows, breaking the stare down that had commenced between the two rival men.

"John?!" Sherlock called back, his head whipping quickly to face the direction the voice came from. Only seeing a slight glimpse in the darkness, but he was sure he'd be able to recognize John's silhouette in a room of shadows. He was sure.

"Don't move Sherly," Jim giggled as a big bulky man who held John in place walked out of the shadows. The man held John's hands painfully behind his back and a gun to his head. Sherlock's companion looked a little worse for wear, spotting a scratch or a bruise here or there on his body.

"What are you going to do Sherlock?" The maniac called with a laugh to match.

"Better think fast," He added as an afterthought when the thug grabbed one of John's hands, taking a finger in his grasp and starting to bend it backwards in an unnatural angle

"No! Leave him alone! What do you want!" Sherlock demanded, frantic.

"I want you to guess," Jim told him and leaned back contently as if this was like no other Sunday morning.

"I can't! Tell me and I'll do it!" Sherlock yelled, his mind spinning panicky for answers. If it was anyone else, he'd be able to think. He would let the thug break a few fingers. But this was John.

John let out a scream as the thug broke his index finger as easily as a flimsy twig.

"Oopsie! Better hurry Sherlock, poor John only has ten fingers," Moriarty cackled. Sherlock began to panic, not coming up with anything quick enough.

"I-I'll give you money! Anything."

"Wrooonngg!" Moriarty sang, highly entertained as the thug snapped another one of John's fingers. John yelped in pain, but was clearly trying to keep quiet. What a stubborn man, Sherlock thought at the back of his panicked mind.

"I-I'll-I'll be with you!" Sherlock tried.

"Tempting, but no," Jim frowned. Snap. Another one of John's fingers. Before he could realize, Sherlock's eyes started to tear up against his will. What happened when he ran out of fingers

"I'll stop solving!" he rushed forward as he spoke, but he knew the man before him was untouchable

"Nope, no fun."

Snap.

"I um, I'll… Commit a crime!"

"Hm, no."

Snap.

"Oh no, looks like we have to go to the next hand!" Moriarty laughed. John whimpered in pain.

"I'll die!"

"We tried that," Moriarty frowned, getting bored.

Snap.

"I'll work with you!"

"Hm, sounds nice," Moriarty smiled finally, the suggestion peaking his interest.

"I'll do it! Just let him free!" Sherlock pleaded, his face stony and unreadable.

"I can't see why not," Jim shrugged and motioned for the thug to let John go. He ran quickly over to Sherlock, catching him in a tight embrace, being careful of his broken fingers. They had already started to discolour.

"But wait, how will I know you'll stay true to me?" Jim asked, and points a gun at John's skull.

"I will! I swear!" Sherlock said definitely, putting John behind him protectively.

"That isn't enough. How about a deal?" He proposed.

"Anything."

"Have I said that I enjoy seeing you desperate? I didn't even know you had feelings, dear Holmes," Moriarty marveld and stood, walking over to the pair.

"Just tell me the deal!" Sherlock said, calm and collected, but very, very angry.

"If you betray me, I kill both of you," He grinned, satisfied with his solution, looking back and forth between the men.

"Fine," Sherlock spat, wanting to remove John from the premises as soon as possible.

"Sherlock! No!" John spoke up, stepping out from behind Sherlock.

"Be quiet John." he reprimanded him

"Yes, Mr. Watson, do shut up," Moriarty frowns like he was scolding a child before returning his gaze back to the man of the hour, "It's a deal, you may go." Moriarty smiled and the thug opened the door, revealing the cool English night outside. Sherlock held John up as they stumble to the door as fast as they could move, a slight limp returning to John. Sherlock felt nothing but empty. He didn't think, he didn't think what he would have to do. All he could think was John, getting him safe and far away from all this madness. He knew he couldn't see John anymore, and then, the pain began to seep in. He never felt pain before, but no, that was a lie.

Redbeard. Sherlock's body jolted as the name rushed into his memory. Yes, just like that pain.

He kept his face straight and unreadable. Emotionless. Like always.

Suddenly, John busted out of his grip and swung around with a gun in his hand. Where the hell did he get that from? Sherlock thought, reaching out to grab it from his hands, but it was too late. The metal exploded in the doctor's hand, but he didn't flinch as a bullet splattered Moriarty's brain against the wall behind him. Another shot and another angry blank look from John, the thug fell to the floor with a heavy thud, the blood pooling around his body like a grotesque pond. Silence overtook the abandoned warehouse and Sherlock looked at his companion with complete shock and worry before a loud click resonated throughout the room.

"What did you do!" Sherlock yelled, recovering from his previous surprise and grabbed John's wrist, ignoring the pain in his fingers, John followed without question, and runs as fast as they could away from the building and down the street. Their feet pounded against the sidewalk, curious glances and horrified stares followed them along the way. A huge bang shook the floor of Bakers Street as the building they were just in not moments ago, blew sky high, debris scattering the street, smashing windows in its path. They eventually stop running, never looking back and Sherlock turned to John, halting their footfalls.

"Are you Mental!" He demanded at John. His John that he could have lost that day.

"I saved us didn't I?" he shrugged, out of breath. Freigning aloofness to what just transpired, but Sherlock could see the terror in his eyes.

"God you're an idiot…" he sighed and hugging John tightly against him.


	5. Human Error

"Have you gone completely fucking mental?" Lestrade demanded, his fist slamming down on his desk, so much so that Sherlock could hear it echo throughout the office. John and himself had been in that office for hours now, in the same rickety chairs obviously that had been used since the 80s at least. Or that is what Sherlock guessed by the model. But his guesses tended to be right anyways.  
John sat next to him, one hand completely in a cast while the other just had splints on the broken fingers. It had taken the doctors a few hours to put John’s fingers back together, which involved, realigning the bones and popping the dislocated joints back into place. No significant damage was done to his metacarpals*, which was extremely lucky, but John would still have to go through extensive physical therapy to return his fingers back to normal.  
"Sherlock. Will you pull your head out of your ass for once and listen?" the inspector demanded, bringing Sherlock once again out of his thoughts. He sighed in annoyance and regarded him with a bored look.  
"I am listening. But seeing as you have been repeating yourself for a few hours now, I really don't see the point in listening any further," he shrugged and from the corner of his eye, he could see John pinching the bridge of his nose with two of his unbroken fingers, in obvious frustration with the remaining fingers that weren't brutally broken. A fresh wave of anger rolled through Holmes veins, warming his whole body. He irately removed his scarf and discarded the soft fabric on the desk before bringing his attention back to Lestrade.  
"People died, Sherlock," John said blankly, restraining to keep his voice under control. Sure, he was glad Sherlock and himself were still breathing, but at the cost of many more lives. Lives with families and lovers and he couldn't help but blame himself, scolding his relief that he was still alive and not blown to smithereens. It was all his fault.  
"People die everyday," Sherlock dismissed in an attempt to console his partner but when John went rigid before he realized it wasn't the best thing to say. Sherlock felt, much like John, very much guilty but he also kept in mind that he didn't pull the trigger with broken fingers. It was John's fault but it was just human error. Tuning Lestrade's endless rants, he thought of how he would have reacted and came to the irritating conclusion that he would have done the same, if not worse. Human error.  
Snapped out of his daze once more when he realized John had been having a fit for the last five minutes. He seemed very irate about what Sherlock said seemingly indifferent. Sherlock rolled his eyes, he had always found that John would overreact to anything he said at the moment.  
"And another thing! You clearly are ignoring the fact that all of those lives could have been saved! What is two people compared to the around thirty that lost their lives?! How could you-"  
"May I remind you, Dr. Watson, you were the one that pulled the trigger, not me," Holmes dead-panned, seeing John bristle with anger and hurt in stages. Disbelief flashed his companions features first, quickly covered by hurt and regret and even quicker, blanketed with anger and dare he say hate.  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," Lestrade groaned once the door slammed, the glass shaking with the force of the door being shut so violently when John stormed out. He didn't respond and just watched the door that John left so heatedly out of. He may have been a bit too tough on him. He would calm down, Sherlock decided quickly.  
"Back to business then. How many exactly died?" He asked casually, Lestrade settling in his desk chair with a sigh.  
"twenty-seven dead, thirteen injured," the inspector read off of the report given to him by Sally Donovan. He ran a hair through his greasy hair, pulling his hands away in disgust. He would have to eventually get home and take a shower and get a decent night's sleep for the first time since the accident. Maybe a decent meal from his wife while he was at it.  
"Not thirty," he clarified before continuing, "And you are sure he is dead this time?"  
Sherlock needn't clarify, Lestrade knew exactly who he was talking about. The man in front of him sighed once more, slightly annoying the consulting detective with the loudness of his breathing which he found completely unnecessary.  
"As sure as we can be," he finally answered after a few moments and Sherlock didn't need to read his demeanor to tell that he was unsure.  
"I require a bodyguard for John for the time being. Make sure he knows his head from his arse and knows how to keep his mouth shut," he said offhandedly before standing up and straightening his coat, picking up his scarf and securing it around his neck. Before Lestrade could even mutter a syllable, he walked out of Lestrade's office and into the throng of reporters outside. They yelled questions at him, much like a firing squad and he pushed passed him, keeping his head hidden from the cameras.  
He let his mind wander when he finally hailed a cab and let himself be driven to his flat. Thinking John might be there but he knew better when the man was angry with him. He rolled his eyes at his temper and moved his mind to more prying situations. He saw Moriarty blow his head to bits inches from his own, how he managed that still baffled him. The main question in his mind was if he could do it again. Perhaps not come back from the dead, of course not, that was impossible. People didn't come back from the dead. There was an explanation, he just had to find it.  
A million possibilities raced through his clever brain as the sky opened up and rain poured down on the road ahead of him and the cabbie.  
\----------------------------------------------------  
Metacarpals*: Bones within the fingers and hand.


	6. Hung Over

It didn't take long for Sherlock to make it back to his flat, discovering he was right in assuming John was not there. Knowing the doctor, he was at a bar not too far down the street.  
"Oh Sherlock, I heard what happened! Are you and John alright?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from around the corner before emerging from her flat to greet him with worried eyes.  
"Just fine, Mrs. Hudson, John is drinking away guilt with whatever fingers he has left, he'll be in around Midnight. Make him some tea, will you," he said without question, continuing up the stairs without looking back. The woman's worried tone followed him up the stairs but he didn't hear a word and shut the door on the irritating noise. He felt bad for her sometimes, it wasn't her fault she was obnoxiously worried about things that were none of her business.  
He stood in the middle of his flat, letting the silence engulf him in his partner's absence. The seat where John usually sat, remained empty. However, he had been used to that, John didn't sit there every second of the day but, for once, his partner's absence bothered him.  
He cut off his train of thought and realized that it wasn't productive. He didn't have time for petty thoughts and wanderings. He walked swiftly to one of his many laptops set up and opened it in one movement. John had scolded him before for not having passwords to any of these devices, however, passwords took too much time, there were more vital issues at hand.  
He would have to start from the beginning. One simple question of how Moriarty rose from the dead. Of course, that was impossible and he couldn't obviously have done it alone. Sherlock pondered if he could even go to the bathroom by himself. He chuckled to himself as he opened a blank document and started to type furiously. John always used this computer for his blog, Sherlock realized and paused in his typing for a moment, wiping his hand over his face. The man was just everywhere. Just out of childish spite, he shut the laptop and replaced it on top of another and started over. It was all childish, how John was acting, it was his fault, of course, that they were in this position in the first place. If John wasn't everywhere in Sherlock's life, infiltrating his thoughts every few seconds, the smell of him lingering in the stuffy air of the flat, clinging to the furniture. It was his fault, like a drug, he concluded. It was like an addiction he couldn't shake, not that he wasn't used to that. John's fault that Moriarty had leverage against him.  
He had been looking at a blank screen for a bit over a half hour, scolding himself for letting his mind wander. Again. He forced himself to start writing everything he knew about the man, which wasn't as much as he liked. Slamming down on the enter key twice, making a list of the people who could have possibly helped Moriarty's disappearing act. One of the first names on the list was Molly, but he deleted her name the second he wrote it. She was not nearly smart enough and he knew for a fact she could not have done such a thing. She was easy in his thoughts, she knew what she needed to do her job. She wore her heart on her sleeve even more than most people, she definitely wouldn't have helped a man like him. She hated him as much as Sherlock and John did.  
The list was surprisingly extensive, easily reaching over three pages of names. Everyone in the medical and the police department, except for those like Lestrade.  
Just as he was finishing the list and starting to narrow it down, the door flung open and John stumbled in a little past midnight. His hair was disheveled, his button up was untucked from his trousers. The look was pulled together with his bloodshot eyes and scowl that instantly found Sherlock typing away at the desk, looking back at him. The decision whether to make a smart quip at John's appearance or not was a particularly hard one.  
"Fun night?" He inquired, the decision to make a smartass remark won out this time. John's features only darkened, his words he had been planning to tell his companion all night suddenly leaving his mind. Instead, he grunted lowly and kept walking into the kitchen for a glass of water.  
"Miss Hudson made tea already," Sherlock added, turning back to the screen, not looking forward to dealing with a hungover partner the next morning. John was a pain enough as it was.  
"I don't want bloody tea," John snorted haughtily and flopped ungracefully onto his armchair. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his boyfriend throw his apparent fit he was having. He also ignored the fact that he had referred to John as his boyfriend in his head.  
"What have you done? Sit there? I was out working." He sneered, leaning forward a bit on his loveseat, his expression slightly puzzled about there were two Sherlock's in the room.  
"Where did Molly's boyfriend come from? Not aware you two were mates," he pouted, feeling the sting of jealousy in his intoxicated body. Sherlock shut the laptop briskly, not in the mood to have John and his drunken escapades ruin his train of thought any longer. He pushed the chair away from the desk and stood, walking over in front of John who looked like he was having a hard time focusing on his figure. He leaned down, hooking his arms around John's sturdy waist and heaved him up. With a grunt, John leaned heavily against him, struggling to even keep standing as Sherlock maneuvered him to his bed.  
"If you get sick on the bedding, you’re cleaning it. Poor Mrs. Hudson shouldn’t have to deal with that as well," he said, making sure John could hear him. Just in case, he put an empty wastepaper basket by the bed. Not for John's sake of course, but for his own. John nodded numbly, leaning his head back against the pillows, too fatigued to fight anymore and before Sherlock could mutter another word, John was snoring loudly against the soft pillows. Holmes rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, leaving John laying on top of the sheets with his clothes and shoes still on. He paused for a moment before the desk and sighed, turning on his heel and headed back into the bedroom, removing John’s shoes as briskly as possible.  
He knew he should get to sleep soon as well, but he never liked to sleep in the first place and at the current moment, he wouldn’t be able to sleep when he was troubled about Moriarty and more trivial issues like John vomiting profusely. Also, apart from him knew that he wasn't sure about sleeping in the same room and bed as his possible boyfriend, but he shook it off, going back to typing rapidly on the computer. Tomorrow was going to be fun, he thought sardonically.

 

The sun shone harshly and John's eyes, his head pounding as if the rays slammed a sledgehammer against his temple. With a groan, he attempted to cover his eyes from the unwelcome light but with no success, everything was too loud. He could swear he heard Sherlock typing all the way through the closed door and out in the sitting room. He mused that Sherlock must be frustrated with something if he was typing that furiously on the poor, helpless, keyboard.  
John paused in his train of deprecating thought on his obvious hangover to take a moment and process where he was. He forced his eyelids open and regretted it immediately. Once his eyes came into focus, he was instantly confused. This was Sherlock's room. How did he manage to get himself in there? And moreover, how did Sherlock not know? Surely he would've kicked him out by now to his own fold out bed in the living room. Deciding it was better to weather the storm now, he made his way slowly out of the room, the bedroom door opening with a creek that seemed louder than anything John had heard in his entire life. He hoped that Mrs. Hudson had already made him a cup of tea, she was such a thoughtful woman.  
Once out in the living room, all of the curtains were drawn shut and the room was dark, much to John's delight. Sherlock sat in front of one of his laptops, typing away, in different clothes he wore yesterday. If Sherlock had changed, how did he not know John was in his room? Unless…  
No, why would Sherlock break a habit? It was very unlike him, even with John. But there was no other reasoning his slow mind could come up with.  
"Morning," he said, his voice gruff and heavy with sleep. Without turning his head to look back, Sherlock murmured a greeting in return.  
"Mind telling me how I ended up in your bed?" He asked, unable to keep back the question any longer. He was too hungover and his patience was exceedingly low.  
"I put you there," Sherlock answered, his tone obvious. John stared at the back of Sherlock's head for a bit over a minute. The man was impossible to figure out. He was such a git the day before, and now… it just made no sense. Without really thinking, he walked forward and placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek before walking into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock completely frozen.


	7. Edward Cooper

Moriarty  
"Fun little trick, isn't it?" Moriarty questioned, keeping his hands behind his back formally. It was very entertaining to see such a proud man, brought to his knees by a few simple pills of Ayahuasca*.  
"What did you do to me…?" he asked, his voice only coming out as a hoarse whisper. Jim felt his smile twitch under the force, backing up to sit in the rickety metal chair not far from where he was standing. From there, he could see a thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. Well, how handsome.  
"Figure it out Holmes," He challenged, his palms facing the ceiling. It was fascinating to watch his face as it goes completely blank with thought for a second, which probably felt more like a few minutes in Sherlock's little "mind palace". He had learned about Sherlock's memory technique from some of John's articles on his blog. The man did have a talent with the written word, but he mostly just read them to get into Sherlock's head and also look for little bits of him in the cases.  
"Drugs," Sherlock finally changed and Moriarty's eyes refocused, shrugging off his thoughts and laughing. It should have been a simple conclusion and taken less time to figure out, but Moriarty figured the drugs slowed the mind. Something Sherlock was well used to. He laughed anyway, finding the situation very ironic, a user not being able to instantly figure out he'd been drugged.  
He saw Sherlock unsteadily rising to his feet, his own body looking fragile under the pressure of gravity. How cute, he quite liked the vulnerable state the man was in. Jim was even most amused at the thought of how he will be when John is brought out.  
"Correct! It was quite entertaining to dance around like my little puppet," He drawled, folding his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. He could see anger flash across his detective's eyes and in his posture, almost shaking with it. It really couldn't get any more entertaining to watch him squirm under his influence. It pleased him, almost a turn on. He could see Sherlock's eyes watching critically and on every move he made. Maybe he should flex for him while he was at it.  
He couldn't help but feel disappointed when Sherlock's eyes flitted away from him, looking for an escape. He fought the urge to roll his eyes or yell for him to take those gorgeous eyes and train them back on him.  
"What do you want from me?" Sherlock growled, his voice dangerously deep and infuriated. It was sexy, he should speak like that more. He shook himself from the thoughts that could wait until later and settled for an amused look on his pale features.  
"Whatever do you mean Sherlock? I think I have won! Once and for all, the Mighty Sherlock is stuck with no way of escaping. You can't think your way out of this one," Moriarty leaned forward with a smirk planted on his pale lips. He had Sherlock exactly where he wanted him and Jim couldn't be more pleased. He saw Sherlock take a calming breath and straighten his spine. He was so much taller than himself, admiring how appealing he was. He could literally just eat his heart out. But there was no time for that now, the show was about to begin  
"Sherlock?" John's voice emerged from the shadows behind him. He loved the flare of theatrics. He could see how the consulting detective's face contort with worry and a hint of fear that he found it quite delicious. He had not only found John by just tracking Sherlock's taxi when they tried to hide him, he had slipped something in his drink to just knock him out for a while to bring him back with minimal struggle.  
Breaking his eye contact that had drifted to John, his attention was drawn back to Sherlock when he yelled out, "John!" in realization. Moriarty could see him squinting against the darkness to see the doctor limping in. Before Sherlock could run towards his little toy, he stopped him.  
"Don't move Sherly," he snickered, slightly embarrassed it sounded more like an amused giggle. It was then that his henchman Hans came from the shadows with John, holding the man's arms painfully behind him. John was a little damaged, so to speak. His skin speckled with bruises and a few cuts on his face which Moriarty blamed him for when he had fallen. The bruises, well, John had woken up not too long ago and was not happy about the circumstances he was in and needed to be knocked out. That's what Moriarty told Hans to do, but it must have really been a struggle if John was that badly bruised. Not that he cared, but it seemed to work in his favor to see Sherlock as worked up as he was.  
"What are you going to do Sherlock?" he challenged, his grin widening to almost painful lengths. Realizing he had forgotten the plan, he added, "Better think fast," as he watched Hans grab one of John's hands and took a hold of one of his fingers, bending it backward slowly.  
"No! Leave him alone! What do you want!" Sherlock demanded, his voice strong and firm, but Jim could tell, he could see it in his eyes that Sherlock was scared.  
"I want you to guess," Moriarty said, leaning back in his chair.  
"I can't," Sherlock spat, and Jim remained amused. Was he finally giving in?  
"Tell me and I'll do it," Sherlock said, his voice turning into a shout. Moriarty just shrugged at Sherlock's feeble attempt to save his "friend" and watched as Hans snapped John's index finger like a baby carrot.  
"Oopsie! Better hurry Sherlock, poor John only has ten fingers," Moriarty cackled as Hans began to take hold of John's next fingers, the doctor whimpering in Moriarty would imagine as immense pain.  
"I-I'll give you money! Anything."  
"Wrong!" Moriarty sang, highly entertained as the thug snapped another one of John's fingers. John yelped in pain but was clearly trying to keep quiet. He must be really stubborn, most likely because of his military background.  
"I-I'll-I'll be with you!" Sherlock gasped, his offer surprising him. He wanted to happily accept, letting his demeanor shift. That is what he wanted in the long run but what was the point? Sherlock would never be his, not like this and not like that. He would never stop trying to find a way to get away and even kill him. As much as it hurt him to say, he'd have to go about this a different way.  
"Tempting, but no," Jim frowned. Snap. Moriarty just turned in time to see John's middle finger bent all the way back and didn't so much as blink. Turning back to Sherlock, he could see his eyes shining with fresh tears. Oh, that was interesting and infuriating.  
"I'll stop solving!" Holmes said quickly, but he could tell how desperate the man in front of him was getting.  
"Nope, no fun," he shrugged, hiding his emotions well.  
Snap  
"I um, I'll… Commit a crime!"  
"Hm, no."  
Snap.  
"Oh no, looks like we have to go to the next hand!" Moriarty laughed. John whimpered in pain.  
"I'll die!"  
"We tried that," Moriarty frowned, getting bored. He knew Sherlock was more creative than that. And really? Would he die for that square? Really pathetic.  
Snap.  
"I'll work with you!" At that, Jim froze. That did sound very intriguing. Once Sherlock and him were close enough, John could take a long walk off a short pier so to speak.  
"Hm, sounds nice," Moriarty smiled finally, making his decision.  
"I'll do it. Just let him free," Sherlock pleaded, his face stony and unreadable. He was quite good, Moriarty couldn't ever denote that fact. He had to be careful.  
"I can't see why not," Jim shrugged and motioned for the thug to let John go. He ran quickly over to Sherlock, catching him in a tight embrace. Moriarty grimaced at the sight but was comforted when he saw John's disfigured fingers, they had already started to discolour.  
"But wait, how will I know you'll stay true to me?" Jim asked, pointing a gun at John's skull. He had to be sure.  
"I will! I swear!" Sherlock said definitely, putting John behind him protectively. Jim sat for a moment to think, Sherlock would never stay if he could just run off with his precious doctor. The doctor and the consulting detective, he sneered in his head. What a sick kink. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal sounds much more appealing  
"That isn't enough. How about a deal?" He proposed, an idea blooming in his brilliantly evil cranium.  
"Anything," Sherlock said, his voice beautifully haunting.  
"Have I said that I enjoy seeing you desperate? I didn't even know you had feeling, dear Holmes," Moriarty marveled and stood, walking over to the pair with ease  
"Just tell me the deal," Sherlock said, looking calm and collected.  
"If you betray me, I kill both of you," He grinned, satisfied with his solution and looking back and forth between the men. Sherlock was an amazing treasure but what is the point if he couldn't be his.  
"Fine," Sherlock spat, being very testy.  
"Sherlock! No!" John spoke up, stepping out from behind Sherlock.  
"Be quiet John," Holmes reprimanded him.  
"Yes, Mr. Watson, do shut up," Moriarty frowns like he was scolding a child before returning his gaze back to the man of the hour, "It's a deal, you may go."  
Moriarty smiled and the thug opened the door, revealing the cool English night outside. The look in John's eyes as the started limping towards the door had the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end in warning. John was going to pull something before Sherlock could stop him.  
He didn't fear for his life but, he didn't want this game to end either. He knew he was only temporary, ever since Moriarty had shot himself the first time. He was specifically trained to deal with many situations; how to escape, how to maneuver and how to die. He breathed in one deep breath, one of his last, and exhaled, relaxing his tense body.  
The drug must have really done a number on Holmes, the pressure of John's torture as well to not notice the subtle differences. The missing mole under his right eye, barely noticeable to a normal passerby, but it was something Sherlock under normal circumstances would have noticed. Also what was amiss was the lack of small wrinkles on his face. Somethings could not be fixed by simple plastic surgery and again he was lucky Sherlock was too drugged up to even realize. Good thing too, it would give away the whole surprise and he only wished he could see Sherlock's face when he found out the truth. The look of betrayal, dismay, and realization would have been priceless and downright sexy.  
His real name was Edward Cooper, born in Nottingham and could have been Jim Moriarty's twin, alike in looks and mind. After a few plastic surgeries to make a mirrored image, he was done and ready to continue the legacy. They had found him a few months before the plan where Sherlock was supposed to kill himself. He was Moriarty's replacement. For now.  
Almost on queue, John tore himself from Sherlock's grip holding the gun with his unbroken fingers with some difficulty. Hans must have forgotten to check him for weapons, what a fucking dolt, he growled to himself. It didn't matter anyway, he was ready by the time the shattering shot tore through the air at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The psychedelic effects of ayahuasca include visual and auditory stimulation and psychological introspection that may lead to great elation, fear, or illumination  
> In this case fear, auditory and visual stimulation  
> Also, you may have noticed this chapter is almost a replica of an earlier chapter “Snap”. However, this is simply the same chapter from “Moriarty’s” point of view to show the reader that this is not him, instead a look-alike named Edward Cooper. I hope this clears up any confusion!  
> -Savannah


	8. Molly the Mouse

“It’s strange and clever,” Molly Hooper murmured, staring at Moriarty’s charred and unrecognizable body on the cold, metal slab.  
“What is?” Sherlock snapped up at her from his spot on the linoleum floor, catching a stress ball mid-air as he was fiddling with in the meantime.  
“Pectin,” she answered absent-mindedly, drawing her eye back down to her microscope.  
“The acid in pineapples? Why would there be-” Sherlock started before Molly cut him off in a proud voice.  
“If inserted in one's fingertips, it will permanently rid someone of their fingerprints,” she informed quickly. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel slightly taken aback for being shown up in terms of knowledge. However, before he could utter another word, he was hit hard by a fact he should have seen all along. Of course, he had seen them, very small ticks, a missing mole under his eye. He Should have known.  
“Ms. Hooper, is it possible that this isn’t Moriarty at all? Have you checked the dental records?” he demanded while John looked at him in confusion. John had his casted hand held in his other politely, sitting on a bench and trying to stay out of the way. He was a doctor but this was not his work and he didn’t want to step on Molly’s toes like Sherlock always did, this was not his department.  
“How could it not be, Sherlock? That was most definitely him!” John said in a patronizing tone.  
“It’s not your fault your mind doesn’t pick up minuscule details,” he bit out, not in the mood for John’s shenanigans at the moment. During this whole exchange, Molly remained quiet in contemplation, continuing to examine the what was left of a man’s body.  
John didn’t answer, he simply just stared back with a hard glare fixed at Sherlock. Sherlock could be harsh, but not usually flat out scathing in his comments.  
“I don’t see how it couldn’t be,” Molly began, not letting her eyes stray from the char before her, “It is impossible to go through all this work to make an exact replica, it is impossible. Down to the dental records. It is him. And from what John said, how could he have acted exactly the same,” she ruled out but Sherlock remained unconvinced.  
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Why would he just blow himself up for a statement, he’s faked his death before, he can do it again!” he insisted and John considered with running a hand through his sandy colored hair. Sherlock was rarely wrong and he could pull off marvelous things, even for Sherlock, this was a stretch.  
“I suppose, but we barely even escaped the explosion, how could he?”  
“That is what I am saying, it- this,” he indicated to the body, “isn’t Moriarty.”  
Molly finally tore her eyes away from the destroyed skin follicles and brought them up to Sherlock with her hands on her hips.  
“I don’t see any proof, no one has heard from him and no one has seen him! He really was mad, I am not surprised,” she stated nonchalantly.  
“Sherlock’s right, Molly. He disappeared for years, just like Sherlock. One almost has to think of them as the same person,” John reasoned with her, seeing Sherlock’s side even though it was a long shot.  
“Do not group me with him, we are not the same,” Sherlock spat, shooting a warning look towards his partner but he remained unphased.  
“Maybe you just can’t see the minuscule details,” he drawled, mocking his words from earlier. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, but didn’t press the matter further, it wasn’t worth the time when that beast of a man was on the loose.  
“I doubt even you, Sherlock, could survive an explosion of that magnitude,” Molly added. Usually, she would agree with everything Holmes said, but something had changed in her recently.  
“Are you attempting to date again?” Sherlock demanded, getting annoyed at her change in her demeanor. He was not a fan of change and she was really starting to agitate him.  
“I don’t believe that is any of your business,” she responded stuffily, putting her tools away and zipping up the body for the night. Sherlock examined her from across the room, looking for any telling signs but there were none. That was a first.  
“Leave her alone Sherlock, let’s go, you’re being an ass,” John said, nudging Sherlock and started heading towards the door. Sherlock was reluctant to go, what was wrong with Molly? He could always read Molly, she was the easiest person to read besides John. Also, she was being very abrasive and cold towards the pair, especially Sherlock.   
“No, I want to know. What’s going on, Miss Hooper,” Sherlock demanded, ignoring John and remained rooted in his place. He did not like not being able to read someone, it reminded him of the woman. And that, he would not stand for. Her person was void of anything that could lead to any deductions, even Moriarty had not picked up on that. It was unsettling.  
“I’m going home, that is what is going on Sherlock,” she replied blandly, not meeting his irritated gaze. John once again nudged him, this time harder, feeling his own irritation growing. Sherlock had been so paranoid as of late and he wasn’t going to let him torment the poor Molly tonight.  
“Which is what we should be doing, Sherlock,” John said, more forcefully. Sherlock let himself fall silent as he thought. This was certainly an odd occurrence, but there were more pressing matters at hand. He would tackle this later.  
“We should go, John. Mrs. Hudson worries,” Sherlock said, obviously not hearing what John had been saying for the past few minutes. John rolled his eyes and gave an apologizing look towards Molly on their way out of the morgue. 

 

“Okay, what is it?” John demanded, once inside their flat at 221B Bakers Street. Sherlock was by his music stand, staring at it, but not seeing it at all. He usually composed his own pieces so for him to be looking at sheet music was odd and very out of character for the detective.  
“What is what, John?” Sherlock replied after a second with agitation, slightly irked that his train of thought was disrupted, didn’t he understand that the game was on. Moriarty was back and somehow he was alive, he just couldn’t figure out how or what his next move was.  
“You and Molly,” he responded coolly, looking through a bit of newspaper in his hands, thinking that he could maybe find a clue to a crime that Moriarty was attached to. Without looking up, he could nearly feel Sherlock roll his eyes.  
“Very vague John. I’m not surprised, however, she was acting very odd and I cannot figure out... Why,” He said, trailing off in puzzled thoughts. He could not wrap his mind around Molly being able to suddenly hide telling signs from him, almost like the-  
“Sherlock? Hello?” John interrupted his troubled thoughts. Sherlock spaced out often and John was used to being ignored. This was different since the re-emergence of the mass murdering criminal, John ceased to exist and these episodes happened at least three times a week. However, sometimes it got to the point where John had thought of calling Molly to make sure he wasn’t using again.  
“What John?” he said coarsely, a strange feeling of anger seeping into his tone, poisoning the air around them.   
“You are thick, Molly was acting so cold! She practically kisses my feet as I bloody walk by!” he exploded, staring daggers at John’s dull blues. The only one that could ever evade Sherlock’s superb deduction skills was her. How was it possible? This definitely threw the detective for a loop and couldn’t help but assume Molly had something to do with either the woman or Moriarty. This also leads to the question, what would the woman want to do with Molly? She texted him often on his mobile but he never answered, why would he. It had to be Moriarty and why couldn’t John see that.  
“It’s the perfect cover, she had a hand in Moriarty’s pseudo-death! It is jealousy, the perfect way to get back at me!” he continued to rant and while John sat in his armchair in shock. John had heard malice in his tone before and seen him act like a total ass, but never like this. So many aspects that were off with the man before him, he was not sure whether to be furious or concerned about his well being. He couldn’t find his own voice as he stared at the man across the room, breathing heavily and eyes fierce and mad. He had gone as far as insulting Molly and blaming her for an incident so horrendous, all in one breath. It was Molly, she was mousy, sensitive and brilliant with a huge heart and every time Sherlock was involved, she got hurt. John could never muster the strength to be jealous of the woman. He knew Sherlock was his, but in this moment, he did not want him. He was slowly becoming a monster before his eyes, falling apart at the seams. This whole issue with Moriarty was ripping him up bit by bit, making him paranoid and anxious, suspecting danger at every turn. This was Moriarty’s design, he had always had a habit of playing the long game and watching his victim squirm and die slowly. He just did not want to be around when Sherlock finally snapped.  
“You need help Sherlock, serious help. Call Mycroft, he knows how to deal with you and your tantrums,” John said coldly, pursing his lips and folding up his newspaper. Without another word, he walked out of their flat, not hearing Mrs. Hudson’s worried calls behind him as he slammed the door to 221B.


End file.
